


More Human Than Human

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aliens, Anal Sex, Bro Being A Bottom Bitch, Human/Troll Relationship, Infamous Captor Double Dicks, M/M, Piercings, Scars, Tentabulges, Troll Anatomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not human.</p><p>It’s something that shouldn’t even have to be stated, really, but sometimes people are dumb, and they forget. He’s not a human, he’s a troll, and with that inhuman nature comes inhuman desires and instincts, and inhuman reactions to things that seem perfectly normal by your standards. He reacts to things in the weirdest ways, and you’re constantly being blindsided by him- and that just bugs you more, because he’s not human, none of them are, and you shouldn’t keep forgetting that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Human Than Human

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PFDiva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PFDiva/gifts).



> For PFDiva, for reminding me that I had more Brospsii and convincing me to get off my ass and post this shit

He’s not human.

 

It’s something that shouldn’t even have to be stated, really, but sometimes people are dumb, and they forget. He’s not a human, he’s a troll, and with that inhuman nature comes inhuman desires and instincts, and inhuman reactions to things that seem perfectly normal by your standards. He reacts to things in the weirdest ways, and you’re constantly being blindsided by him- and that just bugs you more, because he’s not human, none of them are, and you shouldn’t keep forgetting that.

 

Psiioniic is even further from human than the rest of them, you think. He’s ancient, a towering mass of blackened flesh and scars, with little silver studs sprinkled over his skin like stars, twinkling in a way that’s somehow incongruous to the rest of him. He’s massive, and stands a good head and shoulders above you, the tallest human in your weirdass group of human-troll whatevers; at six-five, you ain’t no slouch, but he makes you feel like a child, compared to him.

 

His fingers are twisted into claws, his face sloped, angled, jutting out with a jaw full of teeth you have no doubt could cut through bone, if he so desired. His skin is thick and feels like soft leather to the touch, supple but hard to pierce, with spots of rough chitin plating over vulnerable areas: the insides of his elbows and forearms, his chest, his throat. Your fingers catch on rough patches often, your callouses as foreign to him as his are to you; your bodies are so, so different, and it’s times like these that you realize he’s _alien_.

 

He has you pinned to the ground, his fingers spindly like spider’s legs but strong as goddamn steel; his teeth are clipped mere inches from your nose, and you can see the inhumanity in his eyes, the sheer uncanny-valley horror show present in the angles of his face, but instead of freaking you out, like it would any sane person, it just excites you more.

 

No one ever said that Bro Strider had healthy sexual tendencies. You suppose the boner in your pants would not be a point in your favor.

 

“Psii,” and god, your voice is shamefully breathy, in a low, needy, gasping way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way those pointed teeth are scraping over the skin of your throat, “Psii, fuck-”

 

“You are so impatient,” he murmurs, his chest rumbling with so many layers, subvocals rattling your ribcage, so many nuanced levels of communication you can’t understand, but you can glean some of them from the tilt of his features and the way his breath ghosts over your skin; _‘silly human’_ in the curve of his eyebrow, _‘I’m impatient too’_ in the downcast turn of his lips, _‘do not rush me boy’_ in the pointed drag of teeth on flesh, and you arch your back and tremble before him like he's a god.

 

“Ain’t like I got all the time in the world here, darlin’,” you drawl, “I got a business t’run, y’know-”

 

He ruins your scraped together cool by biting down hard, enough to bruise, to mark, but oh so very gentle to him, nothing more than the slightest bit of pressure to that strong jaw, those sharp teeth. He could dislocate his jaw and swallow half your throat whole, he could bite clean through your skin and leave you an exsanguinating heap on the floor, probably still with a boner if you’re to be honest, but he doesn’t. He does nothing but pin you down and mark you up, leaving visible warnings for any who may try to claim you later.

 

“I am very good at waiting,” he says, licking at the wound to soothe, but in no way apologetic for its creation, “And you, not so much. If you are not patient now then I will do nothing but use my teeth on your pitifully delicate skin till you are little more than a quivering, overstimulated mess on the floor. Do you understand?”

 

You lick your lips and exhale, heartbeat fluttering in your chest as you go limp underneath him. He is so much bigger than you, so much more powerful- he doesn’t even need his fucking hands to pin you down, he could do it with just his mind, but he’s confessed that he prefers to be touching you when you interact in this manner.

 

There’s something about being handlessly manhandled that gets you revved up, but you don’t begrudge him his comforts.

 

“I understand,” you say, more a breath than words; he rumbles at you again, and fuck, you wish you could hear everything he’s saying, everything you can’t understand because you are human and in some ways highly incompatible with his species. Half the words are spoken through little more than deep rumbles and high chirps, both outside the range of human hearing. A fourth after that is communicated through body language and ear motions, his doubled set peaked up in interest, flicking down and back, then back up again in arousal. You can’t hear half of what he says, and can’t imitate another fourth; you are left with little more than a fourth to yourself, a fourth of his language you can understand. It’s… annoying, at times.

 

He dips his head and mouths at your collarbone, both of your wrists pinned in one of his long, thin-fingered hands; his claws just barely pierce your flesh, his teeth just barely drag reddening lines over your dark skin, but all you can do is arch into him, even as he edges back, keeps you from having anything to grind against.

 

“You are evil,” you pant out, and he just laughs, the sound barely audible over your own caterwauling.

 

“I am patient,” he corrects, with ever present calm, except you know it’s not ever present and you know he’s _impatient_ under his blank, Spock-like face, because when you manage to wrap a leg around his hip and grind up, his breathing stutters for a moment and he catches his tongue between his fangs, eyes falling half shut.

 

You lean up while he’s distracted and lick over one of his studs, your tongue ring catching on the shiny silver embedded in his skin. Those spots are always the most sensitive for him, you think; his lips, his ears, the skin of his hips and the bumps of subdural implants down his spine, his temples and the bars he has pounded through his cracked and sometimes flaky horns. Some piercings look professional- and you know the implants are, you went with him to get them- but others… they’re old. Scarred. Home done, and badly.

 

There’s a spot on his ear, near the lower shell- like where livestock would be tagged- that’s just a mass of scar tissue with a gauge through it. It’s the only piercing he’s got gauged. Another on his temple, on the left side; the piercing hooks through his skin, and there’s so much scarring that you can hardly see the night-sky of his skin through the clouds of his scars over that part of his skull. Again, a shiny silver stud.

 

He’s so covered in scars, nasty ones, from wounds you would have bled out from in seconds; it’s just another reminder of how fucking _different_ you are.

 

Still, your tongue against his lips makes him shiver, and he reacts as any sexually active, aroused member of society would act, when presented with a Bro Strider patented hella awesome offer of makeouts- he surges forward, pins you back, and kisses you, his elongated face and wicked fangs making the act a bit more difficult than it might have been.

 

He’s not meant for kissing, none of the trolls are; most find it a barbarian, mammalian act, something stupidly dangerous and disgustingly trusting. After all, why on god’s green earth would you stick delicate facial features in easy biting distance from someone’s jagged chompers? But you like kissing, and he likes kissing, so it’s a win-win in your eyes; he might not be made for it, but he’s fucking good at it, and he has you quaking against him in moments, his hips pressed to yours, your chests pressed together, his body weight knocking the breath out of you.

 

“I need you,” you say, teeth clicking against his piercings as you mash your mouth to his, kissing him hurriedly, needily, all tongue and teeth and spit, “Fuck, fuck Psii c’mon, I need you-”

 

He’s been teasing you for so long, at this point, teasing and teasing and you’re hard and aching and you can feel him squirming around in his pants and it makes you grind against him with a gasping, pornstar-quality sound- and you’d know, you work with them.

 

Your belt flies off and crashes into the wall, embedding itself nearly two inches into the plaster. You’d yell at him for property damage, but you’re too busy shamelessly rubbing yourself up against him as he removes the rest of your clothing in a similar manner, leaving you bare and shivering on the floor, arching up into his warmth. You need him. You need him, and you want him, and you’re going to have him, even if you have to throw the biggest fucking bitchfit of your life.

 

He spoils you; you might as well act the part.

 

Thankfully, his pants are discarded the same way, and within seconds your length is engulfed in sticky, constricting heat. His bulges twine around your cock, squeezing and twisting around you, and it’s all you can do to not come on the spot.

 

“Fuck, just skip the goddamn foreplay an’ get those in me,” you snarl, dipping your head to do some of your own damage; biting for you isn’t nearly as satisfying as biting for him, because you can hardly put a dent in his skin, much less mark him, but he appreciates the gesture, and you appreciate being able to muffle yourself against his shoulder.

 

One bulge slicks itself down, pressing between your legs, prodding against your hole, but you’re still stretched from last night, and he’s tapered enough that if he goes slow, you hardly feel it anyways; you rock your hips down hard, and he’s half-impaling you before you can take in a harsh, stuttery breath, eyes wide.

 

“Fuck-” you spit out, strangled; he pins your arms above your head and drags his teeth over the curve of your jaw, finally, finally beginning to move.

 

He doesn’t look like a human, and he doesn’t act like one; it would make sense that he wouldn’t fuck like one, either, but it still surprises you, for some reason.

 

He doesn’t thrust so much as twine, his bulge undulating inside you, stroking over every nook and cranny, every hidden place; it feels so fucking good you could cry, and seriously, no amount of fucking puppets and puppet fucking will ever be enough to surpass or even amount to this. His hips press flush against your own, and you know that like this, you aren’t going to last long. He’s not either, so you don’t feel quite as bad, but still- yes, it had been a long, long time, but the amount of teasing shouldn’t have made his stamina evaporate like that. No, it’s just him. Just Psii.

 

You bite your lip and he bites at your mouth, coaxing you open so your cries are audible; his body hunches over yours, your wrists bruising underneath the treatment but god, you’re so fucking close-

 

He lashes inside you and you’re gone.

 

His bulges stroke and tease everything they can reach, from your cock to the sweet spot deep inside you; you twitch and shudder in his grasp, cries loud and pornographic, habit from making movies but no less real because of their nature. it feels so good you think you’re going to break apart, you think you‘re going to shatter, and then he bites at your throat and his hips buck just once before he’s filling you up, spilling inside you, overflowing you till your thighs are streaked with yellow from your hips to your knees. Psii just clings, a shuddering mess in your arms, his head shifted to hide in the crook of your shoulder as you lay together on the floor,

 

Everything is right, in these few short moments, where neither of you have any responsibilities, any worries. nothing except each other.

 

It’s… nice. Calm. Relaxing.

 

He can never handle the silence and stillness for long, though, so of course he ruins it, curling up with you cradled to his massive chest, his thin, black lips curled in something like a smirk.

 

“Twenty minutes,” he says, voice soft, even.

 

“What?”

 

You look up at him, some of the sleepy contentment draining from your body, your mind; he’s got a look like trouble plastered across his dark face, teeth gleaming against the black canvas of his lips, and you already know that you’re going to want to smack him for whatever he says next. It’s a gut feeling, and you’ve never been led astray by a gut feeling, not once in your long thirty four years of living.

 

“It only took you twenty minutes to completely fall apart.”

 

You are proven true. The rest of the afternoon is spent chasing him around, chucking throwing stars at his head.

 

 


End file.
